Love Potion Number 9

Sarah had broken up with me nearly two and a half years ago, and I was still having trouble getting back into the swing of dating. I'd be out at dinner, having a pleasant conversation with pleasant woman in a pleasant restaurant and suddenly I wouldn't be able to think of anything but the way Sarah had smelled when she was happy. Or the way Sarah's eyebrow quirked upward when she smiled. There are things that can end a pleasant evening most...unpleasantly, and these most certainly qualified. My friend Adam had suggested that I visit an acquaintance of his who specialized in this type of problem, but I was very opposed to taking my problems to someone else who wasn't my barber or my bartender. It's just not the sort of thing a guy like me does.

One evening after a particularly disastrous night in which I managed to call a pleasant young lady "Sarah", which was most definitely not her name, not once but three times, I finally took Adam's advice. The next afternoon at work, I asked him to put me in touch with his acquaintance. Adam reached into his pocket, pulled out one of his business cards, and quickly scribbled an address on the back, and handed it to me. I put it into my pocket and promised myself I'd check it out that weekend.

Saturday morning, shortly after I woke up and dressed, I found myself walking down Vine Street with the early morning sun in my eyes. As I rounded the corner onto 34th Street, I pulled the business card that Adam had given me out of my pocket and checked the address one last time. Turning around I saw a small doorway behind me painted a gaudy shade of red that would have staggered a bull the size of Babe the Blue Ox. The spidery script above the transom read "Madame Ruth" in black. Nothing else. My trepidation was nearly choking me as I pushed the door inward and heard it hit the small bell that hung from the ceiling to announce customers.